


Lullabies for Little Criminals' Daughters

by toomuchplor



Series: Schmoop Bomb: The Series [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Babies, Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-27
Updated: 2011-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The secret to successful parenting, in Eames' estimation, is setting the bar low enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullabies for Little Criminals' Daughters

**Author's Note:**

> Posted as part of Bina's fluff meme [here](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/243220.html?thread=18177556#t18177556). Title is a terrible allusion to the book Lullabies for Little Criminals. I leave it to you whether I mean Little Daughters or if I'm casting aspersions on Arthur and Eames' stature.

It's a specialized kind of insanity that comes of being cooped up with an infant for days and weeks on end, spending almost all your waking hours tending to the needs of someone whose communication is severely lacking in nuance. Eames knows he's gone around the bend a little when he says over the screaming, "Get Herbert, she likes Herbert."

Arthur desperately plunges a hand into the basket full of plush toys and pulls out a donkey, holds it up, eyebrows raised. He doesn't bother trying to respond over Margaret's wailing.

"Herbert," Eames repeats, "Herbert the flamboyantly gay hare."

Arthur rifles through the basket some more, tossing tigers and lambs over his shoulder, frowning. Finally he comes up with a brown rabbit wearing a jaunty blue gingham neckerchief. Eames lunges for it gratefully, even though this means that he has to leave off the bounce-bounce-swoop rhythm that's been keeping Margaret from outright screaming. She seems set to protest this interruption of service until Eames gets the rabbit in her line of sight and waggles it enticingly, begins talking in Herbert's terribly camp accent all about how Margaret puts him in mind of a young Judy Garland with those lips and that hair and wouldn't it be a shame for her to bring her voice to ruin at so early an age?

It works, as it always does, and soon enough Margaret is cooing instead of screeching, waving unsteady fists to try and pull Herbert's neckerchief close enough to chew.

"Herbert the flamboyantly gay hare," says Arthur very quietly, not quite asking. "I'm scared to ask about the donkey."

"That's Everett," Eames says. "He's bipolar so it depends on if he's in a manic phase or not, how he carries on."

Arthur comes around beside Eames and props his chin on Eames' shoulder, the better to look down at Margaret's sweet tear-stained face. "And the lambs?"

"They're Swedish," answers Eames. "Swedish twins. They mostly giggle."

Arthur's breath is whisper-soft on Eames' ear, so Eames feels more than hears Arthur laughing at him. "I promise, that was the last out of town job for a while," he says quietly, and his arms go around Eames' waist. "I'm sorry I was away so long."

"I did alright," Eames says, smiling, leaning into Arthur's warmth. "Look, she has all her limbs."

Arthur hums noncommittally. "Her socks don't match."

"I think you are missing the important bit," Eames reminds him firmly. "She still has feet."

***

Arthur does better when Eames is called away for two days a few weeks later. Arthur does most things well, and caring for Margaret is not excluded from his list of accomplishments. When Eames comes in the door exhausted, his overnight bag half-falling from his shoulder already, Arthur is spooning yams into Margaret's baby bird mouth; her tights match her dress and her dress matches the little sweet bow that Arthur has clipped into her wispy dark hair. He is, improbably, yam-free himself, and even Margaret's mouth is only a little orange around the margins. She is the neatest and most fashionable baby in the history of the universe. Eames falls over his own feet in his haste to get over to her, muss her up a little, and Arthur is too busy trying not to grin to be put out by the fact that Eames greets her first and him second.

***

But later that night, after dinner and bathtime and storytime and pyjama-cuddly-singing-time, after the-baby's-asleep-so-let's-have-quiet-but-excellent-sex-time, Eames is pulled out of a dead slumber by the faint crackle of the baby monitor. The feed is cutting in and out, clearly not designed for accurate transmission of bass frequencies. Eames rolls over and listens for a while but can't make any sense of the choppy signal. He staggers to his feet and propels himself blindly out the door and down the corridor towards the nursery.

The room is vaguely lit by a glowing ladybug lamp. Arthur is slumped in the rocking chair he'd once pretended was beneath his dignity, Margaret hiccupping quietly as she lies in the crook of his arm. Arthur's other hand is holding up a plush monkey wearing a beret. Presumably it's meant to be the monkey, and not Arthur, who's crooning something low and melodramatic in French, like Leonard Cohen but slightly more melodic.

Eames leans against the doorframe and feels his mouth curving in a sleepy smile.

"Shut up," Arthur sings, not looking up at Eames, not breaking the song but instead working the directive into it. "Shut up, Eames, don't say a fucking word, la la la, hmm la la la."

"Just tell me what his name is," Eames says, coming into the room, grinning now, "so I can get it right when it's my turn."

Arthur pretends not to hear this for another verse or so, and then when he's sure Margaret's drifted off, he looks up and raises an eyebrow, whispers, "His name is Claude."


End file.
